


Take A Look At That Kid!

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cat-o-nine tails, Drugging, M/M, TIGHT jeans, Teaching A Lesson, leather cuffs, punk outfit, restraining chains, whip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23397721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: "Wow! Take a look at that kid!" fascinated at the sight of the tall, angular young one leaning back against the bar, his eyes down, examining the floor.A floppy curl strays onto his forehead which only emphasizes his sharp cheekbones. Shoulder-length curls tumble haphazardly. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and a white undershirt peeks out from an unbuttoned black shirt. Around his waist, a thick belt and at least three silver wallet chains dangle to his knees. One could imagine him using them as restraints. Skintight jeans and black cowboy boots finish his outfit.
Relationships: John Watson & Mike Stamford, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 12





	1. A New Pub

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remake of Do The Clothes Make The Man. I updated the grammar and content. Also gave Sherlock more insight and turned it from E to M  
> 

I'm sick of visiting King Richards pub on Thursdays with Mike. The same crowd, the same beer, the same everything. Two of our younger staff have been meeting at the Hound Dog. The joke is always about its being a hole in the wall. But fun. I'm intrigued. It's time I checked out alternatives. I've been in the same pattern for a few years, and the change would be good.

When we enter the old pubs' establishment, the odors of cheap beer and wine are strong. The crowd is more youthful then we are. I should have figured that into the equation. After all, our staff is young. A cacophony--between people talking, televisions blaring sports events, the glasses banging on wood and the hip-hop music. Talking becomes shouting, becomes leaning into someone's ear to gain attention.  
"And why did we come here," Mike shouts, taking the lead, pushing his way towards the bar. For a Thursday night, this joint is packed.  
"I don't know, but we're here. Let's make the most of it," holding onto his shoulder.

We request two beers from the t-shirted, pot-bellied, bartender. He has a braided beard that is a mix of brownish-grey and hangs to his waist.  
Brews in hand, we find no space to sit and lean against a wall across from the bar.  
Mike leans close, his lips almost touching my ear, "bet the police have a ball here. Some of these patrons look like they could still be wearing diapers."  
I poke Mike in the ribs, my head jerking in the direction of the bar. "Wow! Take a look at that kid!" fascinated at the sight of the tall, angular young one leaning his back against the bar, his eyes down, examining the floor.

A floppy curl strays onto his forehead, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones. Shoulder-length curls tumble haphazardly. His shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, with a white undershirt that peeks out from an unbuttoned black shirt. Around his waist, a thick belt and at least three silver wallet chains dangle to his knees. One could imagine him using them as restraints. His jeans hugged his body, and the bottoms tucked into black sequined cowboy boots.  
"Might be a bit too young, don't you think? " as Mike turns his head to survey the mostly male crowd, "but in this place, it doesn't seem to matter."  
Captivated by the toughened look on one so young, by his composure, and his I don't care air, I shrug, "yea," as I turn away, "too young. Not my type anyway.”  
" Not out trolling tonight, John?” he pokes my arm.  
"You know I don't pick up just anybody,” however, I keep tabs on him as something unknown hits my innards. He casts a spell that butchers my confidence. He's stunning! He's striking! He's hitting every button. I'm lightheaded, off-balance.  
The lad in question stands up straight, stretches, and lazily tries to get the bartender's attention.  
Shoving away from the wall, reaching the bar, I throw down a few bills and say, “For you. No strings attached. I give a perfunctory nod and wend my way to Mike.  
The kid thrusts the money to the floor and destroys me in one motion, by giving me the finger. And saunters out of view.  
“Wow! You got dumped!” Mike declared.  
Deflated, sighing, "I was not trying to pick him up." Or was I? "Let's get out of here," creating a space between Mike and myself.  
The kid, who is much older than at first look, has taken a seat on a table, legs dangling, is aloof.  
He conveys the impression that he's created an island around him. One that no one could swim onto unless he were invited. Unsociable and standoffish. For me, he is an enigma. Someone I'd like to know from those dark curls on his head down to his fancy boots.

They are very conspicuous in this crowd, Sherlock thinks, observing the two gentlemen that invaded this territory. In particular, it was the blonde who registers the most interest. I surmise him to be a doctor who is very confident in his abilities. His garments are not in keeping with his age. Too geriatric. Khaki trousers, truly? And his arrogance! Did he think I was readily available with a cash payment?  
His voice is soft, loaded with the sort of conviction age brings. Screw him, my middle finger says. I feel frustrated. I feel disoriented mentally. Ill at ease. He is undermining my brashness. So distressed at this turn that I decide to depart and curtail my evenings' entertainment.

Sitting in the taxi on the way home, Mike slaps my thigh," the only thing interesting, the main event in that pub, was that kid.” Mike guffaws, my leg the object of another clout.

Mike and I initially met at going away party for his younger brother. Sheldon was one of my rugby players in college. We didn't hang much, but he was going into the army, and his parents planned a party for him.  
It was sex at first sight for Mike and I. I knew that men were my preference and were comfortable seeking the company of both sexes. For Mike, it was different. He was terrified his family would disown him as they disapproved of gay. We moved in together, giving his parents the excuse we could save more money to open our dream clinic. Because of his extreme discomfort, we could not show affection in public. It was a constant source of tension between us. It was for the best because the novelty wore off, and we turned out to be better friends than lovers. We joined our resources to open our clinical facility, still living together.

I genuinely consider an excursion back to the Hound Dog. Not that I expect him to be there. But what if? And what if? The truth of the matter is--I don't know how I would proceed if--. I keep my speculation and dreams to myself, so not even Mike knows. He'd snicker, call it infantile, absurd. It is, right? It is, isn't it? But when Mike goes out one night, I decide to take the plunge. I'm setting off to the Hound Dog!

Scrounging for something to wear, sliding the hangers back and forth, I realize my wardrobe looks like a man in his sixties resided in this bedroom. Baggy pants, khaki-colored, all of them, and well worn. I haven't bought a new pair in I don't know how long. Out of curiosity, I open my dresser drawers and sigh. Jumpers and plaid shirts that have age on them. Please, John, you only just turned thirty, and this is it? Frayed, burnt out? Time for a major change.  
What have I here? Hidden in the corner of the wardrobe is a pair of black jeans. Thank goodness my mid-section is not as rounded as some! To wear boxers or not. Such a silly question. Never would have considered this an issue before. Pulling on the jeans, I know the fabric will aggravate my private parts. I waver, but there's a nagging part of my brain that tells me to leave those damn boxers on the floor. Removing a pullover sweater out of the drawer, I change my mind. What the fuck are you doing? You're not going on a date!  
Irritated with myself, I pull out a green button-down shirt to wear. Relying on the mirror in the bathroom, I brush my hair, mindful that my hands are trembling. The bottle of cologne is on the counter, and I splash some on my face and neck. Abruptly I hurl the brush towards the mirror. Damn, this is senseless. Damn, this is crazy! You are absurd!


	2. Deeper and Deeper John Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock harrumphs, "my body isn't available to be purchased, and if it were, it would be more than you would pay, old man."

There are fewer people in the pub putting me more at ease. I stroll to the bar, order a lager, watching the people on the dance floor, searching for that one particular individual. My glass is not in my hand, because if it were, it would be sloshing over. I shiver as I catch him walking in my direction, his gaze intent, focused on me.  
Nothing has changed in his outfit but maybe, maybe more chains around his waist.  
Gnawing at my lip, out of my pocket I place a bill by him, waiting with every muscle tense.  
He glances at it, scoffs. “You want a blowjob. It'll cost more than what you essentially put on the bar."  
I’m speechless. I did not expect such a deep richness of his voice and the invitation for sex ripples throughout me.  
I was not anticipating him to offer--or was I? Did I want--? I'm conflicted and can barely choke out words, “ offering a beer and some talk, that's all,” my elbows on the wood counter, staring up at hazel-green eyes.  
He turns away, beckons to the bartender, and asks for a beer. “I see how you disrobe me with your eyes. Do try not to attempt to deceive me.”  
“You're assuming lots. But, to be honest--you do look like you're asking for action. A proposition maybe. I would seriously consider--,” my insides bubbling.  
He harrumphs, "my body isn't available to be purchased, and if it were, it would be more than you would pay, old man."  
His calling me an old man is disturbing. It rankles. I'm not much older than him but, I have to admit, my closet claimed me as old.  
Balling my hands into fists, I stand rigid. “Bullshit. What's the cost, and what terms are we going to discuss?" downing the remainder of my drink. I feel a thirst, however, not for the alcohol. My cock is pushing hard, scraping inside my jeans. I want him. Need all of him. It's a desire I haven't known for a long time.  
I'm frozen, staring into his eyes. Lost. You're fucking lost, John.  
He slides his eyes down to my obvious bulge, clears his throat and speaks, his voice a rumble through my body.  
“It’s two hundred dollars. You pay for the hotel and no sleazy establishment. No ass fucking and no kissing."  
I suck in a breath! That's an incredible amount for someone I've only met and in a grimy pub. No guarantees he even knows what he's doing.  
I've got to see this through. Too much has gone into dreaming of him lying beneath me.

After opening the door, I switch on a reading lamp over the king-sized bed and throw the keys on the nightstand. Stretching, humming, I precede to the bathroom and, with sweaty hands, remove my clothing. Stepping into the bedroom I stop mid-stride, my cheeks flushing.  
He stands. In the center of the room. Naked. Pale skin. Pale, pale skin. All bones and angles. A waist a woman would envy. Almost no hair on his chest, but a thin dark line runs to--.  
Scooping up air into my mouth, while my eyes widen, my groin rises. Oh my god!  
"You're --," not able to finish, as my eyes devour him.  
Arms stiff at his side, he stares at a point on the wall.  
"You're so--" walking around him.  
He smirks, "You're repeating yourself."  
Out of nowhere, I'm uncertain, stuck. I can't progress, but can't pull back.  
I hear a thump of suitcases rolling down the hall and a door slamming.  
Come on, John. Move! Do something! Take a small step. However, I can't do it.  
He does! He reaches out a hand, his palm brushing my cheek. I jump back, suddenly petrified, suddenly frozen.  
Straightening up, determined, I bark, “No. “This is my money, my lead."  
My palm contacts his chest, pushing him backward until his legs hit the bed, and he falls onto it.  
The ceiling is his view, as he lies stiffly, waiting for me to begin.  
Overcome, I climb on, my legs astride his hips. Crushing my body onto his, I brush my lips on his neck. "No," his voice firm," no kissing." Pleasure floods my limbs. I shudder, and my hand extends down to sheath our members together. I can't control my urgency. The mere touch, this simple sensation of his body, his member touching mine, brings me to a closure almost instantly. His hip lifts, trembles, and his semen swirls onto our bodies.

Tumbling off, and lying on my back, I ask breathlessly," Was it good for you?" Why did I even ask that? It's never been my concern how my partner of the evening would enjoy our encounter.

I'm dazed by this stranger who is bothered enough to ascertain my experience in this enterprise. "For what reason would you give it a second thought?" It's ludicrous, preposterous! People don't consider the sensitivity of a paid prostitute when their sexual demands are its main priority. This individual, whose name remains a mystery, surprises me. My hands under my head, I contemplate my next step, and the absurdity of my next statement shocks me. “For another three, I'll remain the night.”

“No, that okay. But wait, on second thought, how will I reach you if I care for another session.” How peculiar to think that! I've never used any male whore more than once.

The lanky stranger sits, his feet dangling over the bed, stringing his fingers through his hair, and cocks his head, " for what reason would you request me another time?" A deep breath follows, "ah, it was spectacular, wasn't it! You reached your peak so soon you crave another go," chuckling.  
Snorting, even though it's true, I answer, "try not to be so sure about yourself, you ass!" I dress rapidly, my heart beating with a fear that I would go with the offer he made. It's my first experience picking up someone other than from a service, and dammit, it would be this individual! Out the door, into the elevator, and when the door opens on the ground floor, I hesitate, finger on the button.  
"Excuse me, can you push three for me?" a woman says taking a step in.  
"Oh, sorry. I was getting out," and with a whoosh of breath, rush for the outside.

Mike and I are in the lobby of a theatre, and I'm crowd watching while we wait to be seated. My breath snags in my throat. It can't be! Is it --him? Here?  
If it wasn't for the curls and those prominent cheekbones, I might not have recognized him. He's dressed appropriately for the evening in a black suit, purple silk shirt, but no tie. His hair is still wildly curly but with a soft sheen.  
I nudge Mike, “isn't that the same kid from the Hound Dog? The one in that punk outfit? Is it possible?”  
Mike glances about, mumbles," That's him all right."  
He smiles. No, he leers." And the guy he's with. Well off, by his look. Hmm, do you believe he's being kept ?"  
“If so, Mike, why would he be in that pub?" I haven't the faintest idea why I'm pushing the issue. I need to know what Mike thinks. He hasn't noticed me with an eye to eye contact--yet--but, there's an invisible string tugging us together.  
Mike intrudes on my thoughts, his hand round his jaw, thinking," Intriguing. Let me see if we can get any data on the two,” and he wheels around to confront the lady adjacent to him. “Excuse me, madam, can you tell me who those two gentlemen are over there? I may have met the older one, and I'm mortified not to remember his name.”  
The white-haired lady grins, her hand pats his arm, “why that's the Holmes brothers. The older one with the cane is Mycroft, and Sherlock is his younger. A wild one, I’ve heard. Mycroft is a high-level government, something or other. That's all I know.”  
A slight bow to her, “thank you, ma'am. That was most helpful.”  
“It would appear that you were dead wrong," the heaviness in my stomach lessens, "about the boyfriend bit. Either way, it's not our business. Come on,” taking my arm, “the doors have opened.”

Bill and his wife Angelica have welcomed us into their home for drinks one evening. My heart skitters when I first see Mycroft and then out of a hallway, strides Sherlock. I cannot meet his eyes, and I have the strongest desire to run out the door.

" Come. Meet the Holmes brothers. They could be a huge factor in subsidizing your clinic," Bill says, and we follow him. Mycroft acknowledges us with an indifferent nod. Sherlock encases my outstretched hand in both of his, holding it longer than is needed. I can't surrender it without making a scene.  
A corner of Sherlock's mouth tilts up, watching my expression as Bill explains the nature of our clinic. Sherlock's studies me, releasing my hand.  
" I imagine you find yourself in all kinds of situations. Some that might need your special-- brand of attention", he states, addressing himself to Mike. He intends to dig at me. To make me uncomfortable, and he is. Oh, shit! This is going to be one hell of an evening!  
“We've instituted a new policy at the center. In mild cases, we are home visiting. Our clients, especially the elderly, are appreciative,” Mike says.  
“Highly unusual it is,” Sherlock's eyes agleam, " I would remember it-- if the circumstance warrants it."  
Mike looks sideways, befuddled, and Mycroft scowls. The elder brother gives us his card, “Doctor Watson and Doctor Stamford, I'm facilitating a social next Tuesday, at nine pm. After dinner cocktails. Might be beneficial to your little clinic," and leaves, Sherlock following.  
“That's strange. I got the funniest feeling that Sherlock knew you--and--."  
Snapping, “don't know what you're talking about,” and leave him quickly, finding relief in joining a conversation concerning this weeks rugby match.

I did not expect to see John Watson this evening. Regardless of my attempt to ignore him, I can still feel his throbbing pulse all the while holding his hand. The closeness of his person was upsetting. I knew Mycroft was silently questioning how and where had I interacted with John. That is the issue with us as siblings. We know how to read people, especially each other. This boring gathering is going to be more captivating than I first envisioned.

I'm alone, peering at the beverage in my hand, when a whisper occurs near my ear, “for two hundred, I'll engage another session.”  
I'm startled, “Damn you, cut it out,” snarling low, confronting him, "that happened just a single time. What's more, I think that good old bro there won't be too happy on the off chance that he discovers what you do in your spare time.”  
“Ah, that being the case, I question whether your boyfriend, excuse me, ex-boyfriend would appreciate finding out about your experience. Yet you do bed strangers, and, are you so remarkably sure you have control in every circumstance? Ever been misused?" sneering.  
“Okay, let's call it even. Let's be friends and forget that night.”  
Raising his hand, he dismisses me and saunters away, my heart hammering.  
My lips curl, and I grit my teeth. I was excessively cruel. Could have been more cordial. Did not have to confront him. Clearly, he's had close encounters. His tell-tale flinch was my clue.

Walking into the Holmes house is like venturing back in time. Even to the old Victorian sofas and chairs. Table lamps and the wood-burning fireplace radiate to bring the central brightness into the parlor while massive, ornate drapes shield the outside light from getting in.

Sherlock glances my way, smirks and turns to the companion he's speaking to. I make no move towards him.

Over the fireplace hangs a painted picture and I step nearer to appreciate it. It's a portrait of a man and woman dressed in clothing appropriate for the nineteenth century. The bearded man is standing with one hand on a chair, the other on the shoulder of the woman. She's sitting with hands demurely in her lap. Neither one is smiling. "That's their maternal grandpa and ma. The house you're standing in belonged to them. Very little has changed in this house. Mycroft likes it this way," pausing," Hello, Doctor Watson."  
Turning, I'm confronted by a woman with a cocktail drink in one hand. She's waving it recklessly, and I expect the liquid to slosh out, so I step slightly away.  
“Mycroft mentioned you would be his guest, and I took the time to do some research. Both about you and your center--both quite-- interesting.”  
“And for what purpose was the research done?” I ask, crossing my arms. She strikes me as self-indulgent. Colored red hair, a silk flowered long-sleeved shirt, and white palazzo pants and certainty about life that money bestows on one.  
She shrugs, "My names Charlotte," not offering her hand, "Oh, curiosity. I always take an interest in what those young men," gesturing towards the brothers, “are doing. A cautionary warning. Watch out for Sherlock. You could be the next victim.”  
“What do you mean, victim?” hands in my pockets, holding a handkerchief tightly.  
“Sherlock tends to be bored with people. Well, that's true for almost anything. He's a Mensa genius. Sherlock is residing here with Mycroft so he can take charge of Sherlock's life. Keep him from straying too far," she hums softly. "But Sherlock has a habit of picking a pawn and devouring him. When he's burnt out with that game, he goes to another. Several days, two or three weeks, and he's finished with them. For the most part, men."  
“So you think I'm next on the list?” shifting my feet.  
She takes a step closer and whispers, "Yes, I'm certain. Watch yourself!" strolling off.  
Sorry, Charlotte, but you've only intrigued me more. I understand what you're saying, however--who and what is Sherlock.  
I breathe in, gradually let it out, and take the few steps to Sherlock. His back to me, chatting with another doctor.  
Tapping him on the shoulder, without shifting his position, “I'll be with you in a moment, Doctor Watson.”  
How can he know it's me?  
"Hey you," jumping at the sound of Mikes's voice, " I've got a check in my pocket, and a woman offered to run a bake sale. How about you? Get anywhere?”  
It's been the last thing on my mind, “yeah, I might have something going.”  
Mike eyes me suspiciously, seeing my closeness to Sherlock," hmm, I bet," and leaves me, clucking his tongue.  
Sherlock pivots slightly too close. To close to be comfortable and, inhaling, I take a step back.  
"Dinner with me, you were going to ask. Boring!" drawing near, sniffing, “Your cologne. Run of the mill."  
" Dancing! That's it! We'll dance. Tomorrow. Meet me at the Hound at nine."  
Nine, he said. Tomorrow night, he said. Indeed, John Watson, you're in for one serious ride!


	3. A Step for Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't understand the dualism. The man in the custom-made suit versus the man in the punk outfit.   
> Sherlock, you intentionally hurt another human. What made you think it was a correct thing?

I've no sooner entered than Sherlock is by my side, his hand tugging my sleeve,“ Tonight you are mine," his voice rumbles, turning me about.  
"So I guess we're not staying here," and follow him out and into a taxi.  
I can demand the driver stop and let me out; however, I realize I won't. I have no clue what's in store for tonight, but I will go along with it.  
The sign on the drab brown building was once a deep red, the name Pinkys in shocking pink. All faded now. Inside pink and purple strobe lights swivel, permitting limited visibility throughout the room. Wall sconces succeed in illuminating both the floor area and the bar. The music is low and mellow and has a tinny sound. Probably cheap speakers and a CD player.  
The bar is off to the left.  
A firm hand on my shoulder turns me towards the center of this unimposing establishment.  
In the dim light two couples, men, are swaying to the soft music.  
Sherlock's arm slips around my waist, pulling me in towards him. Too close, too familiar.  
"Sherl--," objecting to his closeness, my hand pushes against his chest. I tremble as I feel his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin under his shirt.  
His other arm encircles my shoulder and grips the back of my neck. Not even a piece of paper could wedge between us.  
His tongue swipes at my ear and says, “ We're going to dance, John. An unconventional kind of dance. I lead, and you adhere to the instructions. Understand?"  
Nodding my head which rests against his shoulder, my arms hang at my side.  
"You're not a mannequin, "gruffly," do something with your appendages."  
Puffing out my breath, my hand is clammy because it lays in the small of his back. His shirt does little to stop the burn of his skin.  
"Open your zipper, with your other hand, but leave the button fastened."  
My eyes widen, I open my mouth, but he silences me.  
" Don't attempt to argue. Do it and now," the sound of his voice, low but penetrating.  
His tongue, his bites, his voice, and his demands arouse every sexual atom that is running through my body. My breath quickens, my head dips to his shoulder, my left-hand reaches down and awkwardly unzips, keeping the button on my jeans intact.  
His leg drives between my thighs, pressing against my engorged groin.  
He leans his head back, and I'm compelled to look up at his face, "You're lack of underwear? Mishap or deliberately? "  
“You very well know, " struggling to find my voice. "You keep that up I'll-,” all the while his thigh never ceases its motion.  
His curls brush my ear, his teeth scratch, nip on my earlobe. I gulp, gasp.  
"By all means, John Watson, feel yourself rising. Let yourself go. Feel free," his voice a melodic timbre.  
His fingers dig into my back; his tongue plunges into my ear.  
I burst.  
The wetness slides down my leg; my whimpers obscured in his shoulder.  
My legs are rubbery, and his arms hold me upright while I close my soaked jeans.  
“You need refreshment," almost carrying me; I want nothing more than to fall into a chair or bed.  
I feel shaky, stupified, ashamed, satiated. Frigging wiped out.  
How could I have--and for why did I listen--?  
It's all about him. It's his commanding, the richness of his voice. It's his staggering sexiness.  
"Drink up. Drink it all up. You'll need it," a shot of whiskey appears on the counter.  
I wonder what he means by that last 'you'll need it.' One tiny glass won't inebriate me and I down it in one gulp.  
I have to say something, do something, but when I raise my head, the room abruptly moves, reels like a spinning top. The clamor of the pub retreats. I'm in a cotton ball. All the sound muffled. My legs, out of nowhere, give way. I falter, taking hold of the counter. "Wha--wha goin on?"  
Holding me in his grasp, Sherlock maneuvers me through the crowd. I stumble up a set of stairs.  
Vaguely, through the haze, I understand the kid has slipped me a Mickey Finn."Wha, you do?" slurring.  
"You'll be fine," opening a door and shoving me onto the bed in the middle of the room.  
Everything is spinning, turning. I choke, choke again yet nothing comes up.  
I attempt to resist the removal of my shoes and socks, taking a stab at kicking out as my jeans tumble down around my lower legs and off my body. I raise myself on my elbows, wanting to sink my teeth into his arm, lose my balance, and fall onto the mattress. He's undressed me while I lie vulnerable, the stimulant knocking me senseless.  
Leather cuffs buckle wind around my wrists and ankles, and no matter what I do, I can't stop him, can't battle him. I hear chains grate through connections and into metal rings. He's tying me to the bed! My stripped body is sprawled wide open for his probing.  
Sweat beads on my forehead, under my arms.  
"Please, don't, don't," my breath shallow, eyes wide.  
My stripped body is sprawled wide open for his probing. He sits astride, a hand on each side of my face, bending close, “ The medication will hold you in its grip while I hold you in mine. "  
I know nothing about this individual holding me prisoner. What sort of insane person is he? What does he plan to do?  
"Shiitttt," pulling senselessly on the restraints, it's calfskin edge abrading my wrist.  
"You're just going to hurt yourself," muted as if from the end of a long hallway.  
"Help, help," crying out. But am I hollering or whispering?  
"Call out as much as you chose. The proprietor is apathetic concerning what occurs in these rooms as long as there are no dead bodies. I have engineered this for your benefit. You are naive with regards to requesting sex from strangers. You have been exceptionally fortunate in those undertakings. Up until now."  
I'm twisting my body frantically, battling, wearing myself out. I hear moans and know it's originating from my mouth. Being held against my will was not something I ever contemplated.  
“Your present condition is not of importance to me. Remember John--I'm a transient you picked up in a dingy pub. I've tranquilized you and have you held in an unknown environment. I am the master. I have paid to have my desires met." Stepping off the bed, he undoes both leg chains.  
Lunging at him with both legs, smacking him in the chest, I'm enough of off-kilter as not to affect. My kicks are like taps on his body.  
“Resistance is futile. ” carelessly tossing me on my stomach, and reworking the chains.  
"Who am I? Have--," he strikes my ass with his open palm," you--," heaving my hips up," ever-- "jerking on the mattress, "given any thought to your safety? To this game, you presume --to-- have-- control --over?"  
"Doctor John Watson, who is Sherlock Holmes? Am I a sadist? Do I have no regard for human kindness? Would you be able to stop me if I kept you captive for days? Using you in every way, I would want?"  
Trapped in a nightmare!  
His pinkish, blotched skin matches the palm of my hand. I stare at it, uncertain of the bizarre rationale that is taking place in my mind. I've enacted this scenario many a time and know the outcome unequivocally.  
Tentatively reaching out for the black leather bag, something has altered deep in my innermost self. Gathering up the cat-o-nine tails that curls like a snake waiting to be uncoiled, I whip it out, lashing at the air.  
From deep inside my muddled head, I hear an ominous sound. A cat-o-nine tails. A whip!  
Thrashing, pulling at the bindings, I strain to rise, and the cuffs tighten as I strain, tearing the skin.  
My muscles stiffen under my skin, preparing for the blows.  
“Bellow as hard as you want. Fear will be your tutor," toneless.  
“Fuuccck,” the knotted lashes hit my ass, the sting of the metal tips tearing at my skin.  
Through gritted teeth, I babble," let me go, let me-- I’ll kill you."  
He's savage as the lash sinks onto my back, ass, and thighs. Choking on my saliva as I shriek and holler, tears and mucus from my nose soak the pillow. I hear the whip hit the floor.  
I know for certain he's going to rape me. To drive into me without a condom or lube.  
Instead, there's quiet. No, it's not silent--my whimpering and--his breath--shallow  
The mattress sinks, and I determine he's sat on the bed. His hand smoothes a cooling gel on my wounds. So opposite from the unforgiving pounding just received.  
Nothing registers so deep into the core of me as the humiliation, the hopelessness, and the horror.  
"If I were your stereotypical sexual deviant, I would be plunging into your anus."  
Those last words are clear and precise. No echo, no ringing. Unquestionably the medication is wearing off. An unexpected sigh of relief in knowing he has no intention of assaulting me. “Stop this, stop, fucking-- damn-- you-- to-- hell.” Let me free, so I can fucking punch you out, you madman,” my teeth clenched tightly.  
" I see your faculties are coming around," his voice cracking, "Doctor-- John-- Watson, " quavering.  
Staring at the whip that was as of late an object of torture, I try my best to conceal my mortification. I intentionally hurt another human. What made me think it was a correct thing? The whip drops from my hand as though in contact with a scalding pot handle. I gaze with revulsion at my palm, fingers curled, and splayed out. Agitated, I twitch it. What have I done?  
Out of nowhere, I'm embarrassed at the fear I'm putting this man through. I had never given more than the minutest hypothesis on how I would react. My objective was to embarrass him, to provide pain while I release my sexual urges. My sexual inclinations diminished, gone, and my activities continue to shock me. I can't proceed with my strategy. While removing the offending chains and cuffs, I avert my face. I stand, stroll into the washroom, filling a glass of water and sit it on the end table. He reaches for the glass and propels it forward ricocheting off my chest showering the fluid over myself and the bed.  
“I fucking hate you,” shouting, shaking, my teeth bared.  
He carelessly dumps my clothes on the bed and swiftly moves to the farthest end of the room.  
“ Consider this an education. A review of what could happen if it was another person. You fell directly into the snare," he says, facing the wall, keeping his distance."Get out before the temptation drives me to illustrate what I could have accomplished without your consent. Consider I might have kept you under lock and key for days." In light of my self-disgust, I speak sharper than usual.  
"You contemptuous, egotistical, high-and-mighty bastard! You planned this, didn't you?" Get out of my sight, you--foul--mother--," words stalling in my throat.  
I hurl my shoe, and it hits his arm. He flinches, his head down he hastens to the door.  
I hail a taxi, stop at the clinic, unlock the door, and straight to the bathroom. I need a hot shower.  
My knees give way as the drops buffet the open wounds. Sobbing, I bang my fists against the tiles, leaning my head into the downpour of hot water. My rage cooling with the heat of the spray.  
I pop two Xanax into my mouth, open the cabinet, and remove a long-sleeved top, and a scrub bottom. Exhausted both physically and mentally, I plop onto the sofa in my office. I pick at the tattered seams on the couch as I attempt to fix the remaining parts of my confidence. It could have been worse. Much worse. I shudder at what that could have been, and fall asleep.

Mike's opening the door to my office jolts me awake. Getting to my feet I lose my balance, drop back down, wincing.  
"What the hell--you look like shit!" Mike exclaims," no, you look like someone ran over you. What happened? No, Let me guess. One of your trysts, huh?" shaking his head. "I knew it would happen sooner or later. Even paid escorts can turn on you."  
Holding my hands over my ears, I want him to go away, to leave me alone.  
"Seriously though, are you alright, and is there anything I can do?" stepping closer, then moving off when I shake my head no. "No. I have to rest that's all," concluding that I can't attend patients in my current state.  
Drawing nearer, he reaches out to touch me, then withdraws his hand," go home. I can handle it here."  
The following morning the smell of eggs and sausage is a warm awakening.  
"The toast is on the table and the coffee also. I figured you could use coffee instead of tea. Sit down," Mike insists, opening the cupboard, "I'll take care of the dishes."  
"Okay, yes, You're waiting to hear what happened. Well, I admit it. I had rough sex. A bit too much, but I tried it and never again."  
If this explanation stops his snooping then I'm fine.  
He quirks his mouth, puts the cups and saucers on the table and takes his seat.  
The specter of Sherlock is with me consistently. From one perspective, I'm hesitant to see him. Apprehensive that I'd butcher him with my bare hands. John, he could have done more harm. Could have truly harmed me; however, he didn't.  
But what went wrong? His voice, his bearing completely altered after dropping the whip. He wouldn't make eye contact, his voice sounding low and distressed and he only would face the wall.  
I can't understand the dualism. The man in the custom-made suit versus the man in the punk outfit. Why isn't he content with his good life? What's driving him?  
I'm determined to take the bull by the horns, to get some explanation of his actions.


	4. You Sound Like a Petulant Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wavers. Sherlock questions.

My hand reaches up to bang the knocker, but before I can make contact, the door opens, and Mycroft looks up, putting on his coat. There's no surprise on his face. “John Watson. An expected visit. Sherlock is in the library,” moving around me and out the door.  
Expected? How am I expected, and why? So odd.

Sherlock is sitting in a leather armchair, a silk dressing gown over his trousers and shirt. He uncrosses his long legs," I estimated you'd arrive here tomorrow," he sighs, “always something. But here you are.”  
“Self-centered, fucking bastard, cock--ah what's the use!” throwing my hands up. "Why did you do that? Trying to teach me a lesson, you said? Who made you my keeper?” If you asked me at this very moment I'd have to say my insides are wound like a clock spring. I cross the room to look out the window, fidgeting with the drapes, inhaling and exhaling. Don't let him rattle you. Keep your head.

He's unnerving, this doctor. He unconsciously changes my viewpoint each time we meet. I have no clue how to keep my barriers up. In this case, he makes it easier to discuss the situation by showing me his back.  
“You were too cock-sure of yourself. You found me in an undesirable environment and knew nothing of my background. Assumed I'd behave myself.”

“I accepted that the men I paid good money to were upstanding," speaking into the glass, my breath obscuring Sherlock's reflection, I feel nauseated. It's a tossup between running out of the house or running into his arms.

"For what reason would you make that supposition? People are reprobates. How and for what reason did you guess I'd comply with your notions of expectation? I could have stolen, ravished you, and left you there to wallow in your excrements. It could have been days before the proprietor found you. If you persevere in these ventures, your life is in question,” drumming my fingers on the arm of the seat, mindful of his displeasure and at same moment covetous of his approval.

“But it's okay for you! You’ve engaged in sex with strangers, lots of times, I imagine. No virgin you," bristling, digging. Tightening my hold on the drapes I whisper just under my breath, "careful John."  
"You're still here--and none the worse for it,” easing my tone. I will not confront him. I refuse to recognize that magnetic force trying to draw me in.  
“John. You sound like a petulant child. Yes, I do indulge. I do anticipate and read them thoroughly beforehand and keep a strategic distance. Very well aware of what humans are capable of, I always have a weapon handy,” striding over to stand close, I plant my hands on his shoulders and he shrugs them off just as quick.  
“Don't you touch me,” snarling, “if I turn around, I'll--.”  
He strokes his fingers on my back and murmurs, while his curls brush my neck, "consider it a thing of the past."  
“You and your education,” clearing my throat, his reflection in the window glass, and his strokes, distracting me.  
He moves away, and I feel relieved--no--confused. “Be straightforward with me, Sherlock. You delighted in it--you, you fucker!" There you go! Letting your anger take over. Is it outrage-- or hurt? Both of us stand, quiet. Maybe neither of us wants to break the silence for fear of what would be said.  
It's he that speaks first but it's sober and honeyed. “Pleasure comes in many guises. I've given as well as taken.”  
"You know, Sherlock," turning to face him, "I don't give a crap about your ideas of pleasure," I snort, “shit never met anyone like you.”  
“And you never will.”  
At the sound of his footsteps closing in on me, I physically clench as Iean my cheek against the pane, my thighs squeeze against the sill. "piece of smart-ass shit. Conceited suck,” feeling the flush rush to my cheeks.  
"You are hesitant to admit to reality. There was no motivation to visit today. But you had to see--perceive what and who Sherlock is about. He's everything you envision and more. I can be--," he steps slightly away, turns to touch my hair, his voice husky. "Domination can be enjoyable--.”  
Whirling to face the madman, his body inches away, “No, damn it, no!” pushing him away. “You toy with people. With their emotions. Taking what you need and leaving when bored,” waffling between remaining or finishing this worthless discussion. “God damn you!" and I rush out before he has another opportunity to twist me about.

For quite a while, I am rooted in the same location, gazing at nothing. I articulated that last phrase out of a requirement to control. And the fullness of my trousers at his nearness. I am internally wincing as I replay our encounter. Might I have been more receptive to his uneasiness? Appreciative that he had the guts to stand up to me and sufficiently astute to see his strength? Where is my truth? What I genuinely need and feel inclined to say is I'm sorry. I don't have the foggiest idea of how to. It's intellectually awkward knowing how profoundly I respect this man and value his good opinion.

Mycrofts invitation is sitting on the kitchen counter when Mike enters. He picks up the teapot and pours one for himself. He spies the grey paper with black ink and cocks an eyebrow.  
"Yes. A request for drinks at the Holmes house. Do you want to go?" Can't get away from this. I know we have to because there is no excuse that Mike will accept.  
"Are you kidding? Of course, we should be there! Hey, look, John. He's been a godsend to us. We've got not only his donations but lots more. Of course, we'll go," and picks up the response card, checks off the accept box, seals it in the return envelope." I'll post it when I leave."

There he is, the twit. At ease in a brown leather chair, his legs crossed, his grey pinstripe suit jacket unbuttoned. The essence of wealth and privilege. And absolutely--shaking my head, staring at the ground, giving me time to figure out-- what?  
"Great to see you once more, Doctor Watson. And how are you?” my attention is disrupted by Charlotte, who takes my arm and pulls me to the love seat. I'm not in the mood to be well mannered, and look for an excuse to get away, find it in her empty glass, “would you like some more wine?"  
“I'm good, but the offer is appreciated. So tell me, did the incomparable Sherlock, who incidentally, is watching you at this moment, did he- - ?"  
"Would you pardon me, Charlotte, I think Mike needs me," bouncing up and extending a slight bow.  
"Alright, go. I'm sure you have more significant things to do than gossip," she waves her hand in dismissal.

The craving to represent me in a better light to the doctor and ask his pardon is immense. Twice this week, I have entertained the thought of visiting him and apologizing. In any case, would he welcome my statement? I approach him, not certain how to begin this discussion, "Would a stroll around the house be appropriate for this moment?"

I'm startled when I hear his baritone voice. How the hell does he always manage to ambush me. “Get the hell away,” I snarl.

Did I commit another faux pas? I inhale deep and address him once more, “what might you say to a peaceful arrangement? I would invite the chance to sit and have a repast in a quiet restaurant."  
“Why? So you can humiliate me more than you have?” glancing around to ensure nobody has heard us. Damn! Why am I reacting this way? I need to- - what? What John? I don't have a clue; I simply don't know.

The doctor exerts a deep sigh and walks away, leaving me to retreat to my bedroom and go into the night dissecting anything I could have effected, could have stated.

The cool spring climate turns hot, and I've not heard from the Holmes siblings. I go back and forth, in and out and nothing is resolved in my head. I would like to pursue something with Sherlock. But at what cost to my psychological wellness? You're such a joke! How frequently have you ended up gazing vacantly at nothing in particular? Thinking about what he's doing at a specific time of day. Questioning how it would be to again have his body underneath you--or even on top. Thinking obsessively about him and losing the drift of conversations, to have to internally shake myself to come down to earth.

Mike's over-concern is visible, palpable; however, he never expresses a word.  
Mycroft's check is in the mail every month but I question his motive. Mike thinks he's only being philanthropic. But I sense something else behind his good intentions. Mycroft never does anything without a purpose behind it.

"Hey, I'm going to Mycrofts office to thank him personally. I feel strange, continually taking his money without a word of gratitude. Want to come?" wiping the dishes, as if indifferent to his answer.  
"I think you're over-sensitive, but if it's what makes you feel better than go. I'm going to get the supplies we need for surgery," picks up his coat a takes off.

“Have a seat, Doctor Watson," settling my body into a green, dark green, armchair. These Holmes brothers always seem to unnerve me. I don’t know whether it’s their wealth or their damned self-assured selves.  
He hasn't glanced up from the papers he's been scanning, and it provides me a moment to notice my surroundings. Luxurious is the only word. His embellished mahogany desk is substantial in size, and I would imagine quite ancient. Along one wall is a coordinated sideboard with decanters of liquor and silver trays. The monstrous size of the room allows sofas and armchairs room to live comfortably. All in all, it's intimidating.

Mycroft shuffles the papers and shifts them to one side, and his full attention swivels--to me.  
“ Mister Holmes,” the butterflies fluttering, “ I didn't come here to waste your time. I do thank you for your contributions--however--there is a hidden motive. I'd like to know what it is."  
“Very astute. I realized you would arrive at that resolution. Indeed, I do have an objective. Regardless of whether you decline or accept, I'll continue my contributions. The work your facility does is to be commended and rewarded." Sitting back, his hands resting on the desktop, “you were in the company of my brother, alone, on two occasions.”  
My back stiffens, ready to deny when he lifts his hand, halting all my excuses.  
“Kindly don't. I maintain close surveillance of him--when I can. He tends to--go to extremes, and evade my policing.”  
I chortle, but he scowls.  
“Your last encounter was one of those extremes, wasn't it? Be straightforward and respond truthfully.”  
I break eye contact, questioning in my mind, how he's found that information. Glancing about, I feel the heat rising in my cheeks, and I wave a hand dismissing the question. On the off chance, he knows everything why reply?  
He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands steepled, those intense eyes peering into my soul.  
" I'll address it for you. The usual response to molestation is a terror of the assaulter. Instead, you faced and challenged him. I was astounded. No one confronts my sibling. Nevertheless, you did."  
"Where is this going?" I shift in the seat, “I couldn't let the kid, your brother, get away with it. I required an explanation. That's all it was.”  
“Was that--clarification-- fulfilling to you?” he says.  
My jaw tightens. This is going nowhere, and I push myself up.  
His hands thump on the desk," sit down, John Watson. Now,” harshly, his voice never rising.  
I drop into my seat as though he had physically pushed me.  
“Let us not consume more energy on your past exploits."  
His fingers intertwine, "Suffice it to say that Sherlock's character has altered since that last--contact. Oh, try not to look shocked! I am much more so than you believe me," his lips curl into a near grin.  
“Are you seriously thinking that I, "my finger pointing back at me, "that I could have any, any type of influence on that--well, leave it there," shaking my head.  
“Subsequent to his last confrontation with you, Sherlock has been a veritable stay at home," his expression pinched, sour, "to my utter annoyance. "He meanders the gardens, buries himself in books, and for the most part, languishes about the house."  
My eyes widen, but I have nothing to say.  
“John Watson. I ostensibly have you to praise. But--I require your further assistance."  
My assistance? With Sherlock? If I thought my heart was bouncing when I first walked in, it's now doing somersaults.  
“I'd welcome your resuming your relationship. You have achieved more than the vast majority, including his assorted therapists. He values your assessment of him.”  
“To what degree signifies 'relationship'?” in air quotes.  
“Whatever you wish it to be. That’s your determination,” smirking, he rises and rounds the desk.  
“I'll give it some thought. Thank you either way.”

It's a refreshing breeze that fills my lungs as I step outside--time to clear my head, remove the whirling of opinions. Figure out what I desire to do. Do I want to, and do I require to have a relationship with the kid? And what kind? He's certainly been able to turn my world, to rock me off my perception of what is normal. I never know what is going to happen. Either when he's near or when he's only a dream.

Walking to a nowhere destination, I abruptly turn on my heels, chuckling and walk quickly to my favorite bakeshop.  
Normally I dash in once a week for two creme-filled donuts, topped with chocolate. My favorite.  
And there is the man! In the exact shop, I visit! No coincidence! Never know when or where this angular, curly-headed man will show up. Always a surprise.  
Sitting stiffly on the stool as if he was sculpted, is Sherlock. On the round table in front of him is two creme-filled doughnuts, one half-eaten, and two cups of tea.

“Took you long enough to arrive here! He does get to be long-winded sometimes," his eyes green, twinkling with delight.

Shaking my head. Do I laugh? Do I feel annoyed that he knows about my interaction with Mycroft? Of course, he knew of it. Why wouldn't he? He's one of the Holmes brothers!  
Be nice, John. Patient. Somewhere in my heart, it is something more- - something that keeps drawing me in. Something that enjoys being near this ever-changing person.

“Doctor Watson. Now that you've shown yourself I must leave," and stands, tossing his napkin and paper plate into the bin.

Tugging at his sleeve, he turns to look at me--those eyes--those eyes. "Sherlock. Can we--oh, I don't know," brushing my fingers through my hair, "how about friends. And this time I mean it."

“To what end?” he lifts his shoulders, and my hand drops from his coat.

“Hell, I don't have the foggiest idea. But let's give it a try."  
He regards me, his eyes assessing my features. "I can't comprehend why. But, Doctor Watson, you're an enigma. A perplexity I have yet to solve." With a toss of his curls he says, “The house-- eight tonight,” and he's out the door.


	5. The Trip to an Aquarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John still wavers.

It's as if the kid had his ear pasted to the front door listening for my footfall. The door swings wide before I get the chance to raise my fist to knock.  
"The night is fairly damp, so I lit a fire in the parlor and some tea and scones ready," he says, offering a bemused smile.  
"Is Mycroft home?" peeking around while walking toward the parlor.  
"Do we need a chaperone, John?" his taunting tone now so familiar.  
I shift to situate on the sofa, yet some feeling of anxiety propels me up and to the chair by the fire. I sit on the edge waiting for--I don't know precisely.  
Do I make the first move, and what is the move to be? What are we supposed to accomplish, to say to one another?  
Sherlock snickers, and is as untroubled as I am agitated. He's nearly bouncing, "do I intimidate you? Is it accurate to say that you are concerned there are wrist bindings concealed someplace on the couch?"  
Glancing nervously at the reference I realize he's mocking me.  
He grunts. and I'm humiliated. "That's it. If it's going to be like this, I'm leaving," heading for escape.  
He catches me and twists me close against his chest. I try to resist, my hands shoving, but he holds onto me, my head bending away, "no, No. Don't want this."  
"I don't understand," as he releases me, "why have you come here? To mock me?"  
I step away, breathing heavily, "No! No! I--friends. That's what I'd like us to be."  
He snickers, "I've abused you. I've seen you naked. And you state you presently require my only a friendship? Can't accept that!"  
I've lost control and hastily rush to the door. He's calling me, but I don't respond--and he doesn't follow.

Riding home in a cab, I question what went wrong. What did I expect? A handshake and a welcome to my house, and let's sit and have a beer and play chess?  
I've finished trying. Let someone else be buddy-buddy with him. He's the most exasperating, preposterous, pompous--fantasmagorical man I've ever known! Well, ever knew.

Look at what you've wrought? I walk quickly to the sideboard and pour a beverage, watching my hands shake. This doctor! This noteworthy, unfathomable man! For what reason does he unnerve me. Leave me with no thought of how to communicate with him. I must change my perspective. Plan a strategy.

* * *

Holy crap! The next morning I wake to the pounding of rain. It's a deluge!. By the time I arrive at the clinic, I'm drenched. I've changed and walked to the reception desk when a man steps through the door, dripping wet, holding a huge bouquet of roses.  
I can't believe my eyes! Groaning because it's so obvious to me that it's from the nitwit himself.  
"For a Doctor John Watson," the man says, "Two dozen roses. Boy, She must want something bad."  
Mike chooses that moment to come down the hall. "Wow! Who the heck sent those? Who? Who?" He's gazing at the roses in a ceramic blue and white vase.  
I nod in the direction of my office, and when the door is closed, "If you must know, it's the kid."  
"The kid? You mean--the Holmes kid?" Really? Joshing me, right?"  
"No. It's a long story. There is something about him I like. No questions, no sass from you. My decision, right?"  
He shakes his head, chuckles although deep down he's not laughing, "You mean you're going out with him? Like dating?"  
All I do is turn to my desk and set the vase on the desk, "Your problem, your death," and closes the door.  
I ring up Sherlock and ask," I'd like to try something other than dinner. The roses are wonderful." The line is quiet on both sides, and I'm the one to break it, "how about a visit to the aquarium?"  
Silence, then, "Yes, unconventional for me. But, I'm amiable to try." "Meet me in the lobby tomorrow at one," having nothing else to say I hang up.

* * *

I'm bouncing, applauding myself. I'm euphoric! The roses were a spot of genius! I speculate, and with good cause, that reflection, before opening my mouth, and keeping my emotions tamped, will be central for tomorrow's adventure.  
It's paramount I look my absolute best yet not be too overstated. The armchair in my walk-in closet is brimming with shirts that lay discarded as unsuitable. It's an uncomplicated black bespoke suit, leaving off the vest, and a green silk shirt that I accept.

* * *

"Do you have anything other than suits or punk duds to wear?" he grins upon my entering the aquarium.

He's merely jesting, and my fisted hands stay in my trousers pockets. Better not to reply. I feel equivalent to the energetic children weaving in and around us, as I have no perception of social relationships. Particularly with someone as respectable as the doctor.

* * *

Without considering any factors--letting go of my reserves, I lay my fingers on Sherlock's arm. "Did you know, Sherlock, that seahorses mate for life, and the male bears the young?"  
"Marine biology is of interest to you, John?" analyzing why he chose to invade my person. Willingly.  
"A passing fancy. One of my school trips was on a whale-watching boat, and it was enough to capture my imagination. Any nature show on the telly, particularly those about ocean life is one I can sit and watch for hours."  
I'm happy watching the children while they call each other to come to see the fishes. Their commotion, their steady running between us, appears to be irritating Sherlock. I can hear his under breath snarls.  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a young girl stumble over a bench, her head hitting the ground. Whimpering at first, she shrieks in her pain and fright. Before anyone, Sherlock is sat on the ground, holding her head in his lap. "There there, it's not so bad," cradling her, pointing at a tank across the way, he says, "see the big shark over there?" His honeyed voice and smile detracting her.  
Moving the onlookers aside, "I'm a doctor. Let me examine her," bending down.  
"I'm her teacher. Mrs. Williamson. Will she be all right," her pinched face leaning in, taking the child's hand.  
The unforeseen softness in Sherlock's voice is startling, "Do you know that a shark must keep swimming while he's sleeping?"  
He looks at both myself and the teacher, and whispers, "she's excellent. I felt her head, and it's a minor impact."  
In the seconds he's relating her status, the little girl has stopped crying and is looking at the shark and back at Sherlock.  
"How does the shark rest? Mommy says everyone needs their rest," she inquires.  
"Sharks do not sleep as humans do, but instead have active and restful periods," letting her up from his lap." Stand up and take Mrs. Williamson's hand and proceed with your outing."  
Sherlock brushes off his trousers while I look on in total shock! This is not the side of Sherlock Holmes I expected to witness.  
My mouth hangs open, and Sherlock looks up, smiling, "What? Did you envision me a cold-hearted bastard? Onwards then. Continue the tour."  
After depositing the youngster with her educator, I become overpowered with an unusual sentiment of which I can't name. I do not understand how to overcome the awkwardness now assailing myself. I sit on a bench, and John slides alongside. My hand covers his and. I sense his tremble though he doesn't withdraw his hand.

I daren't take a peek at Sherlock. Terrified of the emotion he stirs. Come on! It's only your hand he's covering. Barely grazing. Get a grip and act natural.  
For a while, we sit amongst the chatter of children and adults until they move into the next room, and we are alone. Still, the vague sounds we hear keep us paralyzed in our heads.  
I straighten my shoulders, clear my throat, "I have a snippet of fun data about the octopus, although you probably know it," watching the cephalopod in the tank.  
"No. Proceed with your story. I am intrigued," swiveling on the plastic bench to better concentrate, mentally willing him to look past our past.  
His stare is powerful, drilling into my brain. Maybe he regards me with a new insight.  
I clear my throat, agitated to be the sole partaker of his hazel-green eyes.  
"A lab in California was investigating fish from diverse coral reefs. Bringing in several varieties and setting them in fish tanks in a spacious room. A diver captured a Caribbean octopus and donated it to the laboratory. They put into a separate tank. The technicians noticed fish had disappeared when they arrived each morning. There were wet streaks on the floor. Who was doing this, and why? Cameras were installed and strategically placed. In the morning, they watched the footage and had the shock of their lives. The octopus left his tank at night, slithered to the fish tanks, and took his fill. Putting covers on all the tanks, they arrived the next day, watched in amazement as the octopus removed his and two other tops, and returned to his tank."  
During my speech, his eyes never dropped, never shifted, and I admit to shivering at the intensity of his gaze.  
"You are a fountain of wonder! I would welcome any other chronicles you can produce as we proceed further into the museum," standing, his hand never lets go of mine.

* * *

John's intellect is staggering in a manner unique to mine. I crush his hand, and a warmth overtakes beginning from the source, euphoric. "Would you consider an early dinner?" hastily retracting," no, I surmise you--."  
"Hey, wait up. To be honest, I wasn't sure you would have me around without--,"  
"You ascertained that I would need to conclude the day with a sexual confrontation, didn't you? And if so, what might your reaction have been?" losing his hand.  
"No, Sherlock. I--I don't know how to explain. I like your company and your intelligence, and I'm sincere when I ask for your friendship. Please. Let's continue around the rest of the gallery." 

The day is destroyed--and I produced it. Summoning up the feared word--sex. Revealing to him, misplaced as it may imply, that it was at the forefront of my plans. We walk, subdued and unconsciously commence toward the exit.

* * *

At the top of the steps of the aquarium, Sherlock stares out, "I am apologetic, John."  
I have a distinct feeling that I must be the one to make a move. Must say something to quell the unease that has grown since our last conversation. Pulling at Sherlock's sleeve to deter him from walking away, I face him, "Yes, let's have dinner--together. Down the street, I know of a small Thai restaurant that I've yet to visit. Are you up for it?"  
"Ah, yes. Nothing echoes so soundly at this instant," tucking his arm in mine he pulls me along.

* * *

The bill has been paid, our stomachs are satisfied, and we're outside the restaurant. The awkwardness reappears.  
I'm not quite sure what to do. Do I shake his hand and leave? Suggest a drink?  
He breaks the silence, going to considerable lengths to seem relaxed he says, "I'd offer you an evening drink at the house, but I'm apprehensive it would exacerbate my welcome."  
"And Sherlock, why wouldn't I want to continue today?" as I hail a taxi.  
Sliding in, I casually bring my thigh against his, my hand rests alongside. As my hand leaves the seat to rest on his knee, his arm wraps around my shoulder. Suddenly the tension breaks, we both laugh, and as quickly go quiet. Is it my inhaled breath I hear or both? Closer our heads meet, my eyes never leaving his lips. His thumb strokes my lower lip, his tongue follows. It's not important or relevant, which is the first to place lip to lip. Only that it happened and it feels like it never should stop.

* * *

We sit snuggled close on the sofa. Sherlock's arm casually drapes over the back, his fingers brushing my shoulder.  
My head nuzzles into his neck, and gradually our lips meet.  
"We ought to focus on--" his hand secures my jaw, those strange greenish eyes gazing intently, "Necking is the fitting word, am I correct?"  
"Goodness, yes," breathless. I rise, very reluctantly, smooth my pants do my best to conceal my erection, and, "I'd prefer to return home. I need time to process this. Also, to discuss this new situation with Mike."

* * *

The hour is late when I step into the flat, but Mike, reading a newspaper, glances up, and folds the paper, "John. Glad you're home. I have something to talk about."  
"Seems we both have information. You first," easing my body into my armchair.  
"This past year or so, my parents have been urging me to marry. That's because Dad wants grandchildren," rubbing his hands on the arms of the seat.  
Damn, John. You've spent so much time on your problems you've overlooked Mike! Looking back on the last weeks, maybe months, I should have recognized his preoccupation.  
Wringing his hands, he sighs, "You don't know what agony I've been going through. And not being able to tell mom and dad my sexual orientation, as you well know, it's been a strain." He ducks his head, sitting cross-legged, "so hard, John. I wish I could say something but--." "We've been through this, Mike. So what are you going to do?"  
So, there's this cute woman Rachel--."  
"Is it the one from the clinic?"  
He nods a yes and I stretch my hand out for him to continue, "months ago, she asked me out, and we've been seeing each other almost every night. I was quite frank with her about my sexuality. And she's okay. It seems she has no interest in sex. Claims to be asexual. All she wants is a husband and a good home. We've agreed to marry and adopt a child. And Dad probably won't mind about adoption."  
"Wow, that is news. I'm sorry I haven't been keeping in touch with--."  
He waves his hand, dismissing my apology, "It's been a trying time for both of us. I know you've had your complications."  
"Before we go into it, how about tea?" in the kitchen not taking a no.  
"Fine," he yells.  
Waiting for the pot to boil, I lean out, "and when will this happy event occur? The wedding, I mean," as I bring in the cups.  
"Mom and Dad are going to meet Rachel this weekend, and we'll have a small wedding within the month. And I want you as my best man."  
"Do I say congratulations? Are you going to be happy?" a frown creasing my mouth.  
"I will try. Heaven knows I'll try," pouring himself a cup I sense more.  
Er, ah, I have bad news, though. Give me a minute," blowing on the hot brew. "Rachels father is footing the bill for us to move and to open another surgery in a small town south of London." His expression is pained. "It's a great opportunity for me, and you can have Glenn step up as your second. Please don't--", choking up.  
"No, no, you go right ahead. It's great, and you'll be great, and you'll be happy and--," we both laugh knowing I'm rambling.  
He focuses, staring, "and what about you? Let me guess. It involves that youngster, Sherlock, right?"  
"Yes. Not sure whether he'll hurt my heart or not. But that's the gamble in any of this, right? I need to take the risk, as do you. All we can do in life is try, Mike."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was fun remaking this story. Hope you like and leave some good comments


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